


Throw Me A Lifeline

by CantStopImagining



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Post season nine, Suicide Attempt, graphic depictions of self harm, i wanna make sure everything triggering is tagged lmao, way too liberal a use of brackets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-03-06 14:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13413435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CantStopImagining/pseuds/CantStopImagining
Summary: “What should I do?” she’d asked, her voice small, hollow, at the realisation that this wasn’t something that was going to just disappear, that this wasn’t Liz Donnelly calling her into her room to send her out with her tail between her legs, but something much, much worse.“Something else.”Something else? There is nothing else.Or, Casey falls off the deep end and only one person can save her. (Sequel to "Mine For the Summer").





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, I'm back from a bit of a break! Unfortunately Christmas is a really hectic time for me work-wise so I had to set writing aside... but I hope that this will make up for it. I've been working on the sequel to Mine For the Summer pretty much since I finished writing the last chapter, and here it is! I really hope it's everything you hoped (though I doubt it's what you expected!) and that you'll bear with me once again as I continue our favourite gals' story.
> 
> Warnings: this story starts off pretty dark and has mentions of suicide, self-harm, blood, domestic violence... if any of these areas are triggering to you please do not read beyond this point.
> 
> I really appreciate you all taking the time to leave me comments and I hope to be able to update this very soon. Thank you for reading!

She’s always had this sense of justice, even as a little kid. Even before she knew the word ‘law’, she understood it, had an idea of wrong and right, and what was fair and what wasn’t. Her brothers used it to their advantage, scribbling her name in blue crayon on the upstairs landing of their townhouse, framing her, knowing Casey would never just sit and take the punishment, that her crying and begging her parents would only result in her getting in more trouble. In third grade, she got her first detention, refused to admit to pushing over a kid who she absolutely did not push over. She wasn’t apologising for something she didn’t do. Without an apology, they kept her back at recess for a full twenty minutes. She refused to write out an apology either. She hadn’t done anything wrong.

It only makes sense that that sense of justice should come back to bite her on the ass as an adult.

As a lawyer, you learn not to dwell on what’s fair and what isn’t. That isn’t the point. You can’t get tied up in all the cases you don’t win, all the guilty people who get to walk free. There are times when you have to look beyond ‘guilt’ and ‘fair’ and ‘justice’. Everyone deserves representation, everyone has the right to a fair trial. (That being said, she knows she could never be a defence lawyer, still feels her skin crawling from her years working white collar cases).

Somewhere in the past seven years or so, though, she’s lost sight of herself. The reasons she became a lawyer in the first place seem fuzzy, distant. Half-memories. She has no life outside of law. It’s lonely. It’s a lonely profession, most of all if you aren’t interested in the politics of it, if you don’t have the time or the patience to kiss-ass on the side. Most nights, she doesn’t even make it to her bed, let alone to any one else’s. Her couch - the same couch she’s had since she moved in - is permanently imprinted with the shape of her, curled under a blanket and falling asleep with the taste of whiskey on her breath, the distant fuzz of the television playing static across the room from her.

“What should I do?” she’d asked, her voice small, hollow, at the realisation that this wasn’t something that was going to just disappear, that this wasn’t Liz Donnelly calling her into her room to send her out with her tail between her legs, but something much, much worse.

“Something else.”

 _Something else?_ There is nothing else.

Once you cut _lawyer_ out of her - with a scalpel, careful to pull every last inch of it away from the rest of her, like a tumour, like a part of her that’s rotted - she’s nothing. She’s nobody. For years, that’s become everything she is. She hasn’t dated, hasn’t even played softball in years. Casey Novak is nothing and nobody. A lump. An empty shell of a person.

(She looks through the contacts in her cellphone and, aside from a family she barely speaks to, they’re all lawyers and cops and court officials and judges… she can’t escape from any of it).

And to top it all off, she’d had to stand there, watch whilst a cop - a good cop - on her squad (not her squad, not any more, someone else’s squad… and shit if that doesn’t hurt more than anything else) was hauled into a police car _because of her mistake._

A man is dead because of her. Another man’s life is over.

She might as well have pulled the trigger herself.

She’d left before Elliot or Olivia could make eye contact, because she knows what it’s like to be burnt by Olivia’s tongue, she knows the look of anger she’d have found in Elliot’s eyes. She knows that if he was quick to throw Fin under the bus, he won’t hesitate to let rip into her. Olivia, too. And it’s what she deserves, she knows, but she’d rather make a clean break.

Her apartment still faintly smells of burnt food where she’d fallen asleep reheating Chinese take-out two nights ago, waking to the sound of the smoke alarm. Clothes are strewn across the floor, no differentiation over clean and not clean. There’s a stack of books and journals and newspapers next to the couch, with an empty yoghurt carton balanced on top, the spoon still sticking out the top of it. The coffee table is a mess of paperwork she never got round to finishing (and now never will), two biros with the ends chewed, an empty packet of chips, and half a bottle of Jim Beam.

Briefly, she imagines her apartment as a crime scene. It’s not much of a stretch. There’s a reason she never has people over.

On instinct, she pours herself a glass of amber liquid, not bothering to replace the cap. She’s already kicked her heels off, and her jacket soon joins them on the floor as she sinks into the couch, lifting her glass to her lips, and silently congratulating herself on making it this far before crying.

The hot burn of the liquid has barely reached her throat when the first tear falls, and before she knows what’s happening, she’s full on bawling, one hand clenching around the glass, the other clinging to the edge of the table. She can’t quite get a hold of herself, to stop the rage that takes over her, unsure if she’s more angry with her bosses or herself. 

(She did do it - this time - but the resulting punishment feels the same as it did all those years ago.)

She gulps down another mouthful, can barely see in front of her through the haze of tears, what little make-up she didn’t cry off in Donnelly’s office now clinging to her eyelashes, all but glueing them closed. Her nose is running, too. She’s an ugly crier. She knows that. 

(Charlie told her that, once, right after he threw a plate at her. But god, she doesn’t want to think about Charlie. Not now. She hasn’t even collected that photograph, the one that lives in her desk drawer. It’s all still there, her whole office, as though tomorrow she might go back to it.) 

Throwing back the rest of the whisky, she slams the glass on the table. The drink burns her throat, and the tears burn her eyes, and it takes her a long moment, eyes closed, leaning heavy against the coffee table, to realise that now her hand is burning too. She opens her eyes, and the glass has smashed. Her palm is bleeding. She stares at it like a person who doesn’t see blood on a daily basis, in crime scene photos; on the ground around a man who she let die.

(On the carpet of this exact same apartment, and soaking through a crisp blue blouse and a soft grey sweatshirt and, soon, more items of clothing than she could count, balled up in a trash bag in the bedroom.)

It takes a moment for the pain to properly register, the world flooding back into focus.

Casey tugs shards of glass out of her hand, drops them into the carcass of the glass, the base of which is still hole. It stings. She gets up and goes to the bathroom. The kitchen sink is closer, but it’s filled with dishes, and the first aid kit is in the bathroom, anyway.

The cuts aren’t deep. She runs the faucet over them, carefully cleaning away tiny pieces of glass that look like glitter, watching her blood swirl down the basin, turning the water pink. 

Casey stares at herself in the mirror, eyes hollow and dark, face red and blotchy. She’s cleaned up after herself in this room too many times.

This mess, though? She doesn’t know how to clean it up. 

(Maybe the punishment doesn’t feel right because it isn’t _enough._ )

She pushes her hair out of her face, wipes under her eyes. At some point, she stopped recognising herself. That’s the whole damn problem.

The glisten of tears starts again, as she holds her bleeding hand to her chest, and ducks down to rummage through the contents of the cupboard under the sink. She has to use both hands to rifle through the baskets of scented soaps and candles and other shit that lawyers buy each other for Christmas and birthdays but surely nobody ever uses. By the time she pulls out the right packet, blood has dripped its way down her arm, her sleeve spattered with red.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

She sighs, sitting down on the toilet, her heart thudding in her ears. She wishes she’d brought the bottle of Jim Beam in with her. Her hands shake. Not just the bleeding one, but both of them, as she tears open the packaging, carefully removes a slither of metal. She presses it between her finger and thumb, doesn’t flinch when it breaks the skin, fresh blood brighter than the rest.

She does know how to clean up, after all.

She considers leaving a note or something, but it seems tacky. Everyone will know why she’s done what she’s done, anyway. She can imagine them all at the DA’s office, their excited hushed tones as they talk about how Casey Novak couldn’t even face the Bar, how she took the easy way out.

(Her mind drifts, for the first time in a long time, to Alex. It’s hard not to. Her heart clenches at the thought of her, and not for the same, bitter reasons it used to.)

(It’s almost enough to stop her. Almost.)

-

She leaves the shower door open.

In the end, this is what ruins it. A shower door that isn’t quite closed.

The pounding on her door drags her back into consciousness and she immediately knows something’s wrong because the shower cubicle isn’t full, like it should be.

And, she’s awake. Alive.

From where she’s slumped in the corner of the cubicle, she could reach the door and close it, but her body won’t let her put that plan into action. Self-sabotage, as always. The water’s running cold, and there’s a headache building behind her eyes, and it’s all going to be for nothing because the damn shower door is open.

Her arms and legs feel like lead. She attempts to grab one arm with the other hand, to force herself to play along, but her skin is slippery with blood and water, and her muscles don’t work.

The pounding gets louder.

Who even is that? Who even cares enough to disturb this? Maybe it’s Olivia or Elliot, or even Fin, come round to yell at her some more.

If she could just close the damn door.

Maybe it won’t matter. Maybe she cut deep enough that it won’t matter. She tries to look, but her vision is so blurry she can’t get a solid glimpse of anything, just a mess of red.

If she’d cut deeper she’d be dead. Or at least unconscious.

Self-sabotage.

God, she can’t even _kill herself_ right.

She lets her head fall back, hitting the back of the shower hard, and then, though it takes effort, she does it again. Her head throbs like maybe she fell and hit her head in the first place. Maybe that’s how she passed out.

Maybe the pounding she hears isn’t the front door at all, maybe it’s just in her head.

Disorientated, she tries to reach around, to find something to hoist herself up by. She can close the door, and start again. The glint of the razor blades on the floor _outside_ the shower, sailing on a pool of water, mock her.

If she could reach them. Or the door. Either one…

God, she’s pathetic.

The pounding on the door finally stops. Casey lets her eyes drift closed, and the silence is beautiful. Peaceful.

…if only for a moment.

“Oh my god, Case!”

She blinks awake, bleary eyes trying to make out the figure as they reach to turn the water off, bundling her in their arms.

“No no no no,” they mumble, pulling her close.

She turns her face into them, meeting cotton and wool, and perfume. Something fruity and floral.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

She has to crane her neck to look up at her. And when she does, her heart almost stops.

_Alex._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your lovely reviews, I'm glad you're excited about the sequel! Just a quick note to say that this story will break canon slightly, particularly when it comes to Alex. I've basically disregarded everything that happened in Conviction and changed when she came back to New York. Hopefully it won't be too confusing and any answers you do have will be answered in future chapters. Thanks for reading!

There’s a split second between the door opening, and Alex seeing Casey, where her left shoulder hurts so much that she’s almost blinded by the pain. Her detectives had always made busting a door in look easy. Then again, maybe it _is_ if you’re more Elliot Stabler-shaped and less Alexandra Cabot-shaped.

(They’re not _her_ detectives anymore. Haven’t been for a long time.)

Any thought of her own discomfort is quickly washed away. It happens so fast, she acts entirely on instinct; turning the faucet off, grabbing for towels, hurriedly pressing them to everywhere she sees blood. For a second, two years haven’t passed, and she’s right back at the last time they were together, Casey bleeding out on the floor of a basement in a hotel in California, Alex clinging to her, a cloth pressed tight to her shoulder, words of encouragement tripping out of her mouth. It’s all too familiar.

“Alex,” Casey mumbles, her eyelids fluttering open, her lips tugging into the ghost of a tiny smile. She’s still dressed, her clothes soaked through, a blouse and skirt sticking to her skin, marbled with blood. When Alex moves a hand to cup her head, it comes away dark and bloody.

“You’ve got to stay awake for me, Case, okay?”

She doesn’t have enough hands to keep pressure on all of the wounds, and try to lift her, and call 911. Plus everything’s slippery and wet. That makes it ten times worse. Wrapping the towels around Casey’s wrists, Alex pulls her close, using her own body to keep pressure on the wounds. Alex has never considered herself a petite woman, but Casey’s practically Amazonian in comparison, all wide-shoulders and well-defined, strong muscles, and there’s no way Alex is going to manage to haul her out of the shower.

Keeping Casey’s arms sandwiched between their chests, Alex uses all her effort to lift Casey, holding her close, wincing in pain as her shoulder throbs under Casey’s weight. 

“I need you to work with me,” Alex coaxes, “I need you to walk with me to the bedroom.”

“I can’t.” 

Alex has never seen her look so small, and weak. It scares her. She’s always been headstrong and stubborn.

“Yes you can… we can do this.”

Somehow they manage to stumble the short distance between the shower and the connecting door into the bedroom, which is, thankfully, open. The bed is unmade, the duvet curled up in the middle of the mattress, one half of the bed covered in piles of clothes still on their coat hangers. It’ll have to do. Alex’s shoulder screams with pain, but she ignores it, wrestling Casey’s onto the bed. She moves on auto pilot, grabbing a towelling robe off the back of a chair, and laying it over Casey’s shivering body. The towels covering her wrists are soaked through. Alex reaches for the closest items of clothing, and presses them to the wounds, applying as much pressure as she can. One handed, she takes her phone out of her coat pocket, her fingers wet and cold and numb, and it takes a couple of attempts to dial 911. She puts the phone between her ear and her good shoulder, and stands over Casey, gripping both her arms tightly, her pulse pounding in her ears as she waits for the call to connect.

Casey gazes up at her with wide, panicked eyes, her tongue darting out to swipe across her lips, a nervous habit that Alex remembers from two summers ago. 

“Please… don’t leave me,” Casey murmurs, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Something in Alex breaks. She knows the words that go unspoken, the pain of waking up in a hospital bed alone. Of thinking you’ll never see someone again.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she promises. _Not this time._

-

There’s so much blood. 

This is the second time she’s been covered in Casey’s blood, and there’s so much of it. Even once she’s taken her once-white coat off, her sweater’s soaked through with it, and her slacks too. She stares at herself in the mirror and all she can focus on is the blood. 

Shuddering, Alex turns on the faucet, and runs her hands under the warm water. There’s dried blood under her fingernails and in every crease of her skin. She begins to wash them, watching the blood swirl down the sink, and before she knows what’s happening, she’s crying. She starts frantically rubbing at the blood that won’t shift, her eyes blurring over with tears, and then suddenly she’s screaming in frustration.

Turning off the water, Alex leans over the sink, sobbing, big fat tears falling down her face.

She knows it isn’t her fault. Logically, she knows that. There’s nothing she could have done differently. She’s not arrogant enough to believe that Casey did this because of her, or that she could have somehow prevented it just from being there. It’s nothing to do with her. In fact, if Alex hadn’t have gotten it into her head to go over there as soon as she’d found out about Casey’s suspension, disregarding all the perfectly logical reasons for why that was a bad idea, there’s a good chance she’d be dead. 

Not that that makes Alex a hero. And it certainly doesn’t make her feel any better about any of it.

Once she’s calmed down, dried her hands on paper towel, re-composed herself as best she can, she heads back through to the private room Casey’s in. She’d insisted on it being private, on them keeping her situation as quiet as possible. The nurse had assured her they had policies in place for this kind of thing, that there was no way that anybody would find out why she was in hospital without her wanting them to, nor that she was there at all, but Alex didn’t think she could be too careful. After all, people at the DA’s office finding out about this would only crush Casey further. She knows Casey will be office gossip already, but the thought of them discussing this over their morning cups of coffee? It makes her feel sick.

Casey’s asleep. She’s drifted in and out most of the time they’ve been here, but the doctor says not to worry about it. They’ve taken her for a CT scan to eliminate internal bleeding and check her brain isn’t swelling, and her wrists have been sutured and re-dressed, but she’s going to be in hospital for at least the next twelve hours whilst they keep an eye on her concussion. Then there will no doubt be the psych consults, and they’ll probably want to hold her for longer than that, to evaluate her state of mind and make sure she doesn’t try to hurt herself again… it’s all protocol that Alex knows well enough from a law prospective, but that isn’t at all comforting. 

The cuts to her wrists had been deep, purposeful. This wasn’t the act of somebody who didn’t know what they were doing, what they wanted to achieve. A centimetre to the right and she’d be dead. And that’s a bitter pill to swallow.

“Miss Cabot, can I get you anything? Some clean clothes?”

Alex looks up blearily at the nurse who enters the room and smiles, aware that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s had to lie her way into being allowed to stay. As far as everyone here’s concerned, she’s Casey’s partner. They live together. Casey hasn’t been conscious long enough to say otherwise. Even then, the visiting hours are long over, and Alex knows she’s pushing her luck getting to stay so late.

“No, thank you. I won’t stay too much longer,” she says, her eyes quickly darting back to the bed.

“Maybe when you go home you’d like to get some fresh clothes for Miss Novak. I’m sure she’d be more comfortable that way.”

Still watching the gentle rise and fall of Casey’s chest, Alex nods, murmuring a “thank you.”

Sighing, Alex folds her arms against the bars of the hospital bed and leans her chin on them. Watching Casey sleep, she can’t help but think back to their summer. They had only been together for a few days, but it had been on Alex’s mind a lot in the years that followed. She’d even found herself writing Casey letters that she knew she couldn’t mail, ridden with guilt for having disappeared without being able to see her when she awoke from surgery, despite it not being Alex’s decision to leave.

In Wisconsin, Alex had had lovers who she’d left to go back to New York, and then eventually to California, and she hadn’t felt guilty then. If anything, she’d beaten herself up over the emotional disconnection she’d felt. She blamed it on the fact none of them knew anything about her, when in truth, that wasn’t the case. Most of her adult life, she’d had casual love affairs, men (and women) she slept with occasionally, a few of which had really meant something to her, but none she’d really had a relationship with. So why was Casey any different? Why, when she’d been moved after Casey’s shooting - to Montana this time, with it’s beautiful landscapes, mountains and fields as far as the eye could see; an even further cry from home, and with yet another new name - had she stopped herself from getting sexually involved with anybody? Surely not for Casey’s sake. She’s not naive enough to think that Casey would have done the same for her.

Why would she? It’s not like they were anything serious.

And yet, here she is, at Casey’s bedside, having lied to doctors, pretending to be something she isn’t. Something she never will be. The lie had come so easily. Of course, Alex is a good liar - she’s a lawyer, even if she is out of practise - but… she hadn’t even had to pause to think about it. And of course, the lie had been partly to protect Casey… she can’t imagine she’d want her family to know, much less anyone at the DA’s office. It had seemed the easiest fix. But she can’t deny that there was an ulterior motive.

Alex doesn’t even really know why she’d gone to Casey’s apartment. Maybe some kind of sixth sense had led her there. Thank god she had.

 _I wish this wasn’t all so confusing,_ she thinks, staring down at Casey. Even bare-faced and after all she’s been through tonight, she looks beautiful, sleeping peacefully. That still-unfamiliar warmth fills Alex’s belly and she has to look away from her, momentarily, laying her head on her arms instead. _You are a grown woman, Alexandra Cabot. Get a grip of yourself._ She’s reminded again of how much of a mess of things she made in California. She’d almost let Casey get killed because she was too busy thinking of herself, letting her heart mess with her head.

“I won’t do that again,” she murmurs, not really meaning to say the words aloud.

“Hmmm?”

The soft sound of Casey’s voice jolts her out of her thoughts. She moves so fast, she thinks she might have given herself whiplash, standing at the side of the bed, not really knowing what to do.

“You’re awake,” she says, for lack of anything else, a bright smile tugging at her lips.

Casey blinks blearily at her, and for a second, they could be back at the hotel, Alex’s alarm clock blaring, Casey refusing to get out of bed. Only for a second, though.

“I should be in court,” Casey says, her voice scratchy with sleep, and then she’s sitting up, suddenly alert, “crap. I should be in court.”

Alex gently urges her back, “it’s okay. You’re not supposed to be anywhere. You’re in hospital.”

“I… hospital. Right,” she swallows, blinking a few times, as if trying to clear her head. Then she frowns, “he didn’t mean to.”

“Who didn’t mean to?”

“I—I just… fell. It’s not a big deal,” she turns her head, looking directly at Alex for the first time, and then shaking her head, “no… no I was in my office, right…?”

The doctors had warned her that Casey might be confused, groggy from the concussion and the painkillers, so it’s hardly a surprise that she’s incoherent, but at the same time it’s so odd hearing her stumble over her words. Casey who is usually so eloquent. Alex swallows, reaching for her hand, but Casey tugs it away, out of her grip, wincing in pain.

“Why are you here?” she asks, “I don’t… I don’t remember. I don’t remember what happened.”

“You’re confused because you hit your head,” Alex tells her, “but you’re going to be okay, you just need to get some rest.“

Casey bobs her head once, twice, then settles back against her pillows. “Ok… Ok.”

Letting out a deep breath, Alex sits down. She knows she should leave, go and get the clothes like the nurse suggested, get some rest herself. She doesn’t even belong here. But she can’t bring herself to leave, not yet. Not when Casey is lying there looking small and fragile and—

“Alex?”

Alex swallows, looking up at her, “yeah?”

“I’m glad you’re here,” she murmurs.

_I am too._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is way overdue. I've really struggled lately with writing and feeling like it's a wasted pursuit... and this particular story has taken it out of me a lot. But I'm back and hopefully will be updating all of my ongoing A/C stories in the next couple of weeks so stay tuned. Thank you for your support. Please be aware of triggering content in this chapter.

Spending any length of time in hospital, as Casey already knows, sucks. It’s even more tedious when you’re physically healthy. In a private room - Alex’s work, no doubt - time passes without any indication of length, besides her regular visits from somebody in psych. Those are the most tedious of all; being talked to like a child, having to answer uncomfortable questions (Casey’s not a liar so she sticks to one word answers, half-truths) and, perhaps most infuriating of all, being unable to read the notes the doctor scribbles down throughout their conversations.

Alex visits. Although she’s glad to see her, Casey finds herself unable to hold any real kind of conversation with her. She’s still overwhelmed by the fact Alex is here, sometimes wonders if she isn’t hallucinating her to make herself feel better. Most of all, though, she’s embarrassed that the woman who she had once considered to be perfect, untouchable, is witnessing her falling apart. Her weird complex about Alex Cabot might have fizzled during the handful of days that they spent together in California, but it’s come back ten-fold since this. Alex would never have landed herself here, that’s for sure.

Still, there’s something about her persistence in taking care of Casey, her presence every day, that warms Casey’s heart where she thought it wasn’t possible. Her days are filled with nothingness, and then Alex shows up and she’s at least not alone, even if she does spend most of her visits in silence. She blames it on the medication they’ve given her. Paired with the lingering concussion, it makes her woozy, ensures she spends most of her day asleep. But she knows it isn’t entirely down to that. She just doesn’t know where to start when it comes to Alex.

“You ready to go?”

Casey looks up at the sound of the familiar voice, having not noticed the door open, lost in her own thoughts. She frowns.

“Go?” she repeats, “where?”

Alex has her coat draped over her arm, a tan trench that is no doubt designer, her bag hoisted up on her shoulder. She looks more put together than before. More like the Alex Cabot Casey knew before California.

It kind of makes her uncomfortable.

“Somewhere that isn’t here,” Alex says, approaching the bed.

Casey has no idea what length of time has passed since she arrived, but she’s surprised that they’re willing to let her go already. She’s barely revealed anything at all to the note-scribbling doctor with the unreadable face, certainly not any kind of breakthrough worthy of her release.

“I’m allowed to leave?” She questions, again.

There’s a hint of a smirk on Alex’s face, “the ‘Cabot’ name still has some influence,” she admits, “i didn’t think you’d be thrilled if your name on a 5150 landed on any judge in the state’s desk.”

Casey frowns. She knows she should just be grateful, relieved even, that she has someone fighting her corner, protecting her from further humiliation, but she can’t help but be hesitant. Why is Alex doing this? After disappearing for two years, why has she come back and why is she acting like they’re something that they’re not? She has all kinds of questions, questions she’s put off asking because it’s been easier to just let Alex do all the talking, better not to point out that she’s never saying anything that’s actually ~important or significant.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, finally, realising she should have asked days ago.

Alex falters, that mask of professionalism and put-togetherness slipping momentarily. “What do you mean? I’m stopping you from having to spend the next-“

“No,” Casey interrupts, “I mean why are you here, Alex? In New York, in hospital, here with me. The doctors all seem to think you’re my... I don’t know exactly, but they’re letting you visit day and night. Why were you at my apartment? I didn’t even know you were back from... wherever you went after California, and now after not hearing from you for years, you turn up at my apartment, my knight in shining armour that I didn’t ask for. What, saving me once wasn’t enough for you?”

It’s the most she’s spoken in days. To anyone. Casey hadn’t meant to sound so angry, but once she started, it all just spilled out. How angry she is about everything: the case tanking, her suspension... the fact Alex had found her instead of leaving her to—-

She doesn’t wish she was dead. Not exactly. She’s not sure exactly what outcome she wants but of all the scenarios she could have concocted - which implies she had thought about it before doing it, which she hadn’t, not really, but still - this one would never have even made the shortlist. She could never have predicted Alex walking in when she did. And yeah, she feels angry at Alex for it. Mostly because she’s humiliated, but part of her knows she’s also still mad at Alex for leaving.

Alex seems to digest that for a moment before responding, and Casey can see that she’s hurt her by the difference in her eyes, but she doesn’t feel any remorse for it, even though she knows she should.

“If you don’t go home with somebody they won’t let you leave.” Alex eventually says, instead of offering any answers. Her voice is cold. Something about it forces Casey to agree; after all she doesn’t want to spend more time here than she has to.

-

Alex gives the taxi driver an address Casey doesn’t recognise. She thinks she ought to insist they go back to her apartment, but then she remembers what it looks like. It’s bad enough Alex has seen it once, without subjecting her to it for the night. The doctors had been very clear: if Casey was going home, it was with someone supervising her at all times. Whether she likes it or not, she’s stuck with Alex.

The taxi journey is just as awkward as Casey expected. They sit in silence, the space between their two seats feeling like a huge, uncrossable distance. Alex spends most of the time looking out of the window, with an expression Casey can only describe as wistful. Even under the circumstances, she can’t help but keep glancing at her, at her face in profile. In the poor lighting of the cab, she looks almost mythical. Not for the first time, Casey wonders if what happened between them in California wasn’t some kind of hallucination, because surely this woman would not be interested in her not even as a last resort. 

Then she blinks the thought away. She has to let go of that image of Alexandra Cabot.

Alex murmurs at the driver to stop, and they pull up outside a large townhouse, separated from the other buildings on the street. They’re in a part of the city that Casey doesn’t immediately recognise, and she wishes she’d paid more attention to their surroundings on the way here. She slips out of the car, stands shivering on the sidewalk whilst Alex pays.

It’s impossible not to compare this place to Alex’s apartment in California, and the contrast is stark. The beach home had been made to look homely but in a way that was entirely fake, and very obviously not Alex. It had been obvious that she’d moved into it like that, hadn’t bothered to make it her own. In comparison, the chic wood floors and neutral colored high walls of the townhouse are far more what Casey expected. All the furniture looks like it has come straight from a catalogue, all elegant and delicate looking. A plum colored couch, a glass-top coffee table, a woven backed chair that looks antique. Everything is bare, impersonal. The shelves are bare of books, much less photographs. The only art on is a black and white print of Brooklyn, taking up half of one wall. It might as well be a hotel.

“You sleep in the bedroom; I’ll make up the couch,” Alex states, her voice matter of fact, without emotion.

Casey perches on the aforementioned piece of furniture, feeling like if she sits too far back she might break it. It’s surprisingly comfortable, though. Eventually, she relaxes into it.

“I’ll take the couch,” she says, and she’s surprised when Alex doesn’t argue, just disappears into what Casey assumes is the bedroom.

Now that she’s alone, Casey takes a deep breath, burying her head in her hands. The stitches in the back of her scalp are itching, but she knows better than to scratch at them. The last thing she wants is to end up back in the hospital when she’s only just free of the place. Her wrists, though…

Casey’s fingers, though trembling, make light work of the bandage on her left wrist, gasping quietly in pain as she pulls the gauze away. She hasn’t had a chance to look at it, to assess the damage. (To work out what went wrong, a dark voice in the back of her head tells her). It’s uglier than she’d imagined, two long jagged lines, held together with stitches, the skin around puckered and dark. Her other wrist is probably much the same. No wonder it burns so much. It would be so easy to just pull the skin apart, rip out those stitches, reopen the wound... painful, but easy...

“You’re not supposed to take the bandages off.”

Her heart seems to bounce in her chest. Alex is standing in the doorway, arms filled with bedding, her face remarkably calm given the situation. Or at least at first glance. Looking again, Casey sees how filled with worry her bright blue eyes are.

Without saying anything, Casey lies her wrist down, attempting to wrap the discarded bandage back around the wound, the gauze now uncooperative. She’s barely managed to wrap the bandage around once, when Alex’s hand on hers stills her.

“Let me,” she says, gently prying Casey’s fingers away.

For a moment, she’s embarrassed, doesn’t want Alex to see what she’s done to herself, but then Casey relents, letting Alex pull out a clean dressing from the pack the doctors sent her home with, gently using an antiseptic wipe before pressing the fresh pad over it. Her fingers dance across Casey’s skin, feather light, but she can’t help but wince when the alcohol burns her skin, and again from the pressure of the new dressing.

“Sorry,” Alex murmurs, as she finishes wrapping the bandage around, carefully tucking the edges in. Casey is almost disappointed when she’s done, Alex’s fingers ghosting her wrist one last time before pulling away completely.

“Thank you,” she says, lifting her head slightly to meet Alex’s eyes. It feels like a short eternity that they sit there, staring at each other, but in actuality it’s only a few seconds before Alex gets up from the couch, busying herself with clearing away non-existent clutter.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather sleep in my bed? I’m happy to take the couch. I haven’t slept in it so it wouldn’t be any trouble...”

“Haven’t slept in it? How long have you been in New York?”

Alex pauses, “a few days,” she admits, “I’ve been in talks to move back but...” she trails off, awkwardly, leaving Casey to fill in the gaps.

“...they were going to offer you my job, weren’t they? God, how long have they been aching to get rid of me?”

“It wasn’t like that, Case… I would never have taken the job away from you. I’d like to hope you know me better than to think that I’d be willing to do that,” she sighs, “as soon as I realised that’s what they wanted… I told them I wasn’t interested. Then I heard what happened, and I… I wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay. I never expected to walk into what I did.”

Guilt flooding her senses, Casey swallows thickly. She doesn’t know what to say. She’s been so busy feeling embarrassed - angry, even - she hadn’t thought about how awful it must have been for Alex to walk in on that. Especially after everything she’s been through…

“I’m sorry,” Casey says, sincerely, gingerly picking at the edge of the bandage Alex has only just finished applying, “not just for… that. But… everything.” She finds it so hard to express emotion, she doesn’t know what to say. It comes out stilted, not quite how she wants it. “I’ve been so rude and ungrateful. I… I guess I got used to the idea of never seeing you again, so I didn’t know how to process…”

“It wasn’t exactly the best timing was it?” Alex smiles wryly.

“It seemed like pretty good timing to me.” _I missed you,_ she wants to add, but she just can’t quite do it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update so soon after the last? I know it's shocking haha. This is slightly shorter, and a lot of it isn't moving the story forward, but I needed a chapter to fill in Alex's emotional state at the moment. I hope this does that. Thanks again for your lovely comments - I'm sure I don't deserve such lovely readers.

It still feels foreign to Alex, unlocking the front door to this townhouse that she’s never lived in, filled with furniture that she didn’t pick out (aside from the new bed she hasn’t slept in; and a chair that was her grandmother’s, which she’d carried over from her parents’ home, along with a box of knickknacks from her childhood bedroom that had resurfaced during the period of time in which she was considered ‘dead’). She’d happily signed the lease on this place, taking it with its original furnishings, knowing she would probably spend no length of time here. Logically speaking, it would make more sense to stay at her parents’ house any time she dropped into town, but she just can’t bear the thought of all its empty rooms, making small talk with the staff she grew up with… all the ghosts that live there.

Not that this apartment is much better. That’s the problem; Alex doesn’t really feel like she belongs anywhere in New York anymore. This city is filled with ghosts, with people who remember her as she _was_. She isn’t that woman anymore. She doesn’t remember how to even fake it, let alone actually _be_ her.

But Casey’s different. She’s willing to try for Casey, for a number of reasons, but most of all because of California. She thinks that maybe Casey understands what its like to be _expected to be something_ , and then not live up to that expectation. She thinks maybe Casey’s whole time at the ADA’s office may have been like that.

Or maybe that’s just a lie she’s telling herself to excuse the fact that she’s been thinking about her constantly since setting foot in the city.

The thought of seeing anybody else she knows here is terrifying. Stepping into the DA’s office Alex had been so self-conscious, nodding tersely at former-colleagues or refusing to meet their eyes entirely. She’s not stupid; she’d been aware of the murmurs that followed her, the eyes watching her as she walked into Jack’s office. It felt like she held her breath the entire time, only barely managing to let it go once she was in the safety of her rental car.

At least she’d avoided Olivia, Elliot, Cragen… all the others.

Still, putting on a brave face for Casey, pretending like nothing’s wrong… that’s something she can do. She may be rusty, out of practice, but she’s still an expert at it. Vulnerability isn’t her strong suit. It’s far easier to pretend that everything’s fine when she’s only under the scrutiny of one woman. Especially one woman who _needs_ her. God, it’s been a long time since she felt needed. Maybe it’s selfish to think like that, but it had been a painful decision to stay in the city when it felt as though New York was suffocating her, and Casey’s all that’s keeping her here. Because if she left, and something happened… well, she’d never forgive herself. Even if Casey has made it quite clear she doesn’t want her help.

She’d been assertive at the hospital; full Alex-Cabot-mode activated, ensuring Casey got the best of everything. She’d talked the doctors into letting her leave early, by-passing laws and procedures and bending all kinds of rules, and she knows she’d looked convincing, because they _let her_. But on the taxi ride, she’d deflated, and now she feels exhausted, the pressure of the last few days collapsing in on her tenfold. Alex doesn’t argue when Casey tells her she’s taking the couch; she doesn’t have it in her to fight anymore. She takes longer than she ought to fetching bedding - also salvaged from her parents’ house - needing a moment to herself, to control her breathing, to stop the panic attack she knows she’s on the brink of, and it’s only the worry that Casey’s alone that draws her back into the living room. 

They’re both ticking time bombs, grenades unpinned, and at this point she has no idea which of them is likely to detonate first.

Or maybe one of them already has. 

She’s reminded of just how serious all of this is when she walks into the living room to find Casey’s already disobeying doctor’s orders and picking at her stitches. Alex has tried to gloss over the reality of how she found Casey, of the fact she _interrupted a suicide attempt_ , that whatever’s going on with the redhead is more than just the possibility of disbarment, but then there it is in black and white, and for a second Alex wonders if it wasn’t selfish of her to get her discharged. Casey isn’t well. What makes Alex think she can magically fix her when a hospital can’t?

She has so many questions, but she knows that she isn’t allowed to ask any of them, that she left even if it wasn’t her decision, and that took away any right she might have had to pry. (She could have come back, after all. It’s been almost a year…). It’s none of her business. Casey’s already made that quite clear. So she dresses the wound, and it’s okay if she lingers a little too long at Casey’s side once it’s done, because at least she’s fighting the urge to kiss her.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather sleep in my bed? I’m happy to take the couch. I haven’t slept in it so it wouldn’t be any trouble…” Alex finally says, interrupting the stagnant, awkward silence between them which feels like it might never end.

Of course, it’s the wrong thing to say. She knows Casey’s going to question where the hell she’s been for the last two years before she’s even finished. Why does she have a fully furnished apartment in New York City if she doesn’t live here anymore? Honestly, Alex doesn’t know. She just couldn’t quite bear not to.

The apology though… that she hadn’t expected. She softens at Casey’s words, feeling this lump form in the back of her throat that threatens to break her. She wants to tell Casey that she’s allowed to be selfish, that all she should be thinking of right now is herself, if that will help this to heal. But she doesn’t, making some quip about timing instead, as if she hasn’t spent the last three days thinking about how if she’d been even a couple of minutes later breaking into Casey’s apartment, she might have been too late. Casey’s right, the timing was perfect. The only way it could have been more so, is if she’d had the guts to come back a year ago instead.

-

She relents in letting Casey take the couch, even after asking if she’s sure a further three times. It’s only a little before ten when they decide to call it a night. Alex fights the urge to tuck Casey in, lingers at the door a little longer than necessary, before feeling guilty for it. Casey’s not a baby. She doesn’t need monitoring 24/7. Alex eventually realises she has to trust her or this is never going to work.

(Of course it helps that Alex’s kitchen is entirely empty aside from a bottle of wine and two glasses, but even those, she considers hiding.)

It’s been days since Alex even attempted sleep, and she’s exhausted down to her bones, but somehow as soon as she slips under the sheets, she’s wide awake. It’s a lingering side-affect of her time in WITSEC, the inability to fall asleep. She’s just about got used to the sounds of DC at night, the pattern of light spilling across her bed from the blinds over her window in the impersonal apartment she rents there. New York should feel like home, but it doesn’t. There’s nothing comforting about the sounds of the city that she’d longed for for so long.

Still, she tries. She thinks maybe if she lies still in the dark for long enough she might trick her brain into doing the hard work for her, but instead it just keeps steadily ticking over, her mind a rolodex of worries, ever turning. Her therapist says she ought to use logic to still those thoughts. He’s given her anti-anxiety exercises before; sheets of paper to fill out, sequences of alternative thoughts to go through… none of it has ever worked.

Alex has no idea how long has passed when she hears footsteps outside her door. She’s not supposed to fixate on the time, and anyway, there’s no clock in the bedroom yet, and her cell phone is plugged in on the other side of the room. She holds her breath, waiting. The bathroom is right next door, and she feels sure that that’s where Casey’s headed, which just leads to more spiralling anxieties. Has she left anything in there that she shouldn’t have? Casey’s bag of meds from the hospital is hidden in the closet, painkillers and anxiety medication in the drawer. Nothing sharp. It’s awful that she has to run this mental checklist but…

The door creaks open, and for a moment Alex considers pretending to be asleep, before deciding against it. She rolls over, sitting up and automatically reaching for her glasses on the nightstand. In the unfamiliar room, she misses, knocking them onto the floor. Through the darkness, she feels rather than sees Casey hand them back to her.

“Sorry,” Casey mumbles.

“Don’t be.”

Awkwardly standing at the side of the bed, Alex can just make out Casey’s outline. She tries to offer her a reassuring smile, but can’t find her eyes in the dark.

“Would it be okay if…”

“Sure,” Alex says, not letting her finish. She shifts in the bed, relieved that she hasn’t misread the situation when she feels Casey climb in next to her.

They lie in silence, not quite touching, but only a hair’s width between them. Casey’s breathing is loud, uneven, her body radiating tension. Being so close to her, but not touching, is excruciating, even if she smells unfamiliar, like hospital bleach and cheap shampoo. It’s been so long since Alex shared the bed with anybody, not since…

“I don’t trust myself to be alone.”

Casey’s voice is so small that Alex almost misses it. It feels like her words suck all the air out of the room. Closing the gap between them, Alex tentatively wraps an arm around her middle, pulling her close. She hears Casey let out a shaky breath, every place that their bodies are touching feeling electric.

“Is this okay?” Alex murmurs, close to Casey’s ear.

She can hear in Casey’s voice that she’s crying as she breathes a ‘yes’.


End file.
